


el nido de forajidos

by ficfucker



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23805757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficfucker/pseuds/ficfucker
Summary: " eating at Forajidos becomes a habit fast. it feels like he's found his own little private, personal heaven. "
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 117





	el nido de forajidos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zwtfmate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zwtfmate/gifts).



> " oh god it’s wonderful to get out of bed and drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes and love you so much " — frank o'hara
> 
> for magrai, who, when i said i wanna write these fools, suggested some of their own ideas, one being: 
> 
> "i thought of one where Freddy is a beat cop and Larry owns a Mexican restaurant, just this hole in the wall where he's both boss and cook, and Freddy goes there once on a whim and then keeps coming back bc hot owner who makes special tacos just for him" 
> 
> didn't follow it precisely, but hope this makes the mark, thank you magrai, for being there to scream about tim roth with me 
> 
> [fic soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1BvrDyb4elJWLxhl3Rn7Yz?si=f2hjiZjjQn-ZeqAU3bgOKA)
> 
> (frankie's gun - felice brothers  
> you sexy thing - hot chocolate  
> lady rose - mungo jerry  
> crimson and clover - tommy james & the shondells  
> roadrunner - modern lovers  
> why can't i touch it? - the buzzcocks  
> don't cry - guns n roses  
> you're the nearest thing to heaven - johnny cash  
> i can't help it - johnny cash  
> ballroom blitz - sweet  
> how long - ace)
> 
> tried to keep the K-Billy accurate with 70s songs, but crimson & clover, and frankies gun are out of the timezones... oh well, i liked them too much to change

It's by chance that Freddy picks the place for lunch. He pulls his car up to a parking spot closest to the entrance as he can get just in case something springs up, then kills the engine, keys dangling from the ignition as he looks the restaurant over. He's not picky, not in the fucking least, but if he's gonna blow money on greasy food, it better not give him the runs. Joint looks a little tacky, not some big fancy place you'd take a person on a first date, though it has some traditional charm to it so Freddy says a mental fuck it, and steps out of the car.

It's kind of ironic for him to even stop in for lunch, considering he's a cop and the damn place is named El Nido De Forajidos. The Outlaw's Nest. Sounds more like a cheap dive bar than an eatery.

Inside, it's dimly lit. There are big booth seats by the windows, a burgundy vinyl, or imitation vinyl, some tables spaced evenly in the main floor area.There’s a bar towards the back, which is where Freddy saddles up to. The walls are real red brick with shelves hooked into them that hold little figurines and pottery, all that decor shit that is supposed to add atmosphere or whatever. Freddy recognizes a miniature sculpture of Don Quixote and he's pretty sure that's a story of Spaniard lore, but assumes the cultures crossover enough considering they're both Spanish speaking places.

Freddy drums his knuckles against the counter until a waitress takes his order. He decides to eat in because sitting cramped in his cruiser is stale as hell and with how slow calls have been today, it feels like fate is giving him a chance at stretching his legs and he's not going to miss out.

He orders a plate of two spicy chicken taquitos, a small bowl of pozole de puerco, and a large glass of Coke, because Freddy's young enough he hasn't lost his sweet tooth yet.

The food arrives quick and hot and it's almost shameful how stoked Freddy is to dig in. He thanks his waitress and after his first bite into his taquito, he knows full well he's going to leave a decent tip. It’s the first hot meal good enough to remind him of a home cooked dinner since he moved out and got his own apartment.

He eats in silence, focused on the food. If he was alone, he'd probably let out a groan, it's that fucking good, and is only interrupted once when the waitress refills his Coke. Freddy takes note of the place. El Nido De Forajidos. Whenever he's next assigned to patrolling the area, he'll be coming back for lunch, no doubt in his mind.

Freddy is fishing into his wallet to cover the bill, his stomach warm and full, when he glances up and makes eye contact with an older man through the windowless kitchen pass. He’s got an apron on over a white shirt, and he smiles at Freddy.  
Freddy smiles back, drops his bills on the counter, and heads out to get back in his car.

* * *

Eating at Forajidos becomes a habit fast. Freddy stops in for lunch regularly and even goes for dinner a few times, takes home the leftovers to heat up later. The food is killer, they play K-Billy over the radio, and it's never busy enough that Freddy has to wait more than ten minutes to be served. It feels like he's found his own little private, personal heaven.

The man in the kitchen is always on the clock, no matter what time of day Freddy drops in for alambre or some tamales. They share a few glances, grazing on prolonged eye contact. One particular Friday night, the guy goddamn winks at him and Freddy can feel the heat rush to his face.

* * *

"You know what, kid? I oughta thank you for being the sole contributor to my retirement fund, Jesus Christ," the man from the kitchen laughs.

Freddy says, "Huh?" dumbly through a mouth full of quesadilla

He laughs again and comes around the counter to sit on the stool beside Freddy, gives him a fatherly slap on the back, which prompts Freddy to turn to his left to face him properly. He seems to give Freddy a look over then says, "Forajidos is my joint. You've been comin' in and eatin' your fill enough that I could retire a happy man if you keep going at the pace you're goin'."

Freddy swallows and kind of giggles. "Can't help myself. Haven't had food this good in years."

He smiles warmly, crooks an eyebrow. "You don't look old enough to know what constitutes good food to bad food."

"Hey, man, I ain't as young as I look," Freddy says, suddenly feeling embarrassed, maybe a little defensive. He's been getting it his whole life, how he hasn't yet grown out of his boyish features. Maybe it's the way he parts his hair, the way he lets it flop in his face some.

"Got a name then? Otherwise you're getting stuck with bein' called kid from here out."

Freddy wipes his hands off on a brown paper napkin then offers one out, says, "Freddy Newandyke."

"Lawrence Dimmick. Friends call me Larry." They shake. Larry's grip is warm and sure.

"Well, nice to meet you, Larry."

Larry's eyes almost crinkle shut from his smile. "Nice to have ya, Freddy. Seeing jumps in revenue and you're at least 5% responsible."

Freddy laughs out of his nose. "Keep cookin' this way, I'll keep returning."

Larry gives him another look over, less observational this time, and more like he's admiring what's in front of him and it makes something drop in Freddy's stomach, how fond and friendly this guy is coming off.

"Sounds like the start of a wonderful symbiosis."

Freddy smiles, dips his chin in a nod. "Wish I'd known about this place sooner, if I'm being honest."

"Oh, now you're just hoping I'll give you a meal on the house. Talking so sweet, hoping to butter the boss up."

"Oh, no way, man." Freddy laughs, a little nervous around Larry. It's intimidating to be looked at with such intensity, not a negative attention, but an intense one nonetheless. Not everyone is so welcoming around cops, so Freddy's conditioned to be looked at like he's the criminal, but he's only come in with plain clothes, so it's safe to say Larry doesn't know what Freddy does for a living.

"Hey, no shame in it, kid. Smart to be on the good side of the boss, eh?" Larry gives him a poke in the arm then eases up from his stool, adds, "Probably could use a meal or two free of charge, though, seeing how you're thin as a rail."

Freddy grins, suddenly feeling loose and bold, and calls out, "Hey, I ain't some halfway house punk you know! I pay taxes same as the rest!"

Larry laughs deep and true and disappears into the kitchen.

Freddy keeps smiling to himself, down at his plate, and there's a churning in his stomach and it definitely ain't from the remaining half of quesadilla he stuffs into his mouth. He tips bigger than he ever has, slings his leather jacket over his shoulder, and walks out whistling along to Frankie's Gun by the Felice Brothers, selected lovingly by K-Billy.

* * *

"You got a story, kid?"

Freddy looks up from his glass of Coke. "Don't we all?"

Larry smiles. "Don't get wise with me, Freddo. What's a young cat like you doing eating alone all the time?"

It's been a week since they first talked. Freddy's come back maybe three or four times since then and Larry's been on his mind, inexplicably, for the entire week. He'll be walking a neighborhood or listening to the scanner in his car and suddenly he's all clouded over thinking about the few jovial touches Larry had laid on him. Freddy's as comfortable as a closeted cop can be when it comes to swinging both ways, had some trouble in his youth, but what queer hasn't? Something about Larry, though, it lights him up inside, makes him stupid, makes him thoughtless, makes him hope there's a single fucking solitary chance that this symbiosis could bloom into something more fruitful than a simple coexistence.

It's too fast, Freddy knows, and Larry is clearly older than him by quite a few years, but that just makes it both embarrassing and dirty in an exciting way when Freddy gets to thinking about the guy. What are the odds that Larry plays for his team? One in five fucking million. Freddy's young, but ain't that thick. He knows if you want to find a guy into other guys, you gotta be privy to the right clubs or street corners, and those are usually just hookups. Bathroom hand jobs or a desperate unfastening of jeans in some shit hole apartment on the guy's pull out couch. Freddy's eager heart wants Larry in completion, not in a dark alleyway, not quick and sloppy like all the other times he's fooled around, and hoping for love from a man you hardly know is downright fucking idiotic.

"Eating alone makes splitting the bill easy," Freddy jokes. "Me, myself, and I, we don't argue about what percentage to tip, you feel?"

Larry half laughs. He wipes down the bar with a rag, coming close to where Larry's hand rests around his glass of Coke and Freddy wants to be touched so badly, he almost shakes; coming close enough that Freddy can feel the heat radiating off Larry's skin. He swipes the rag away and it leaves behind a galaxy of little water droplets on the smooth wooden counter.

"You sayin' you don't got friends?"

Freddy makes a face. "Tell one about it then it'll wreck what I've got going here."

"What have you got going here?"

Freddy starts to flush. "A nice fuckin' place where I can get a good meal and not worry about other punks blowing straws at each other or loosening the tops to the salt shakers."

Larry laughs, shakes his head. "Sounds like you're telling me you hang out with the wrong crowd."

"Nah, but tell one friend and he tells another and suddenly you've got dudes in here that fuck up the scene."

"Fair 'nough."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, man, what's your story?"

Larry sucks on his teeth, looking amused. "If I told ya, you wouldn't believe me, and if you did, I'd have to kill you."

Freddy's blood runs cold for a split second, absolutely intimidated down to his bones, alert all of a sudden like a pointing dog. But Larry laughs and reaches across the bar to jostle him by the shoulder. "Jesus, buddy boy, I'm yanking your chain!"

Freddy exhales and laughs along, torn between the shock surprise and wanting to lean dumbly into the brief touch.

"I cook, I bus, I go home and enjoy a beer. Old bastard like me, the boring parts of life are the most exciting." He shrugs. "Young fox like you, you probably get up to more in a day than I do in a month."

"I'm not part of the party scene or anything, so you might be wrong on that."

"Sure don't look like you collect stamps."

Freddy chuckles. "Try comic books instead."

"You don't look like the nerd type, either."

Freddy smiles and shrugs, says, "Looks can be deceiving."

Larry returns the smile and resumes his scrubbing.

Freddy takes another bite of his tamale and tries to watch nonchalantly as Larry cleans down the other end of the bar, taking note of how he's without a wedding ring. Doesn't mean shit. Doesn't make a man gay.

Freddy admires the sturdiness of his gait, how Larry walks like no motherfucker in his way could knock him over. Maybe that cliché saying of how opposites attract isn't pure bullshit after all, Freddy thinks, listing the differences in them.

No way in hell could Freddy pull off the cool, confident look of greased back, neatly combed hair like how Larry keeps his.

Larry turns back around with the rag over his shoulder and he definitely catches Freddy watching him because he smiles knowingly as Freddy tries to jump his attention elsewhere, face going redder.

Larry stops in front of his plate and sets down his bill and along with it, a single wrap piece of Pulparindo. When Freddy meets his eyes with a confused little smile, Larry grins and says, "Free treat for the road, kid."

Freddy doesn't think it's a coincidence that K-Billy introduces Hot Chocolate at that same moment, picks You Sexy Thing, because all of a sudden, his naive, hopeless ass absolutely believes in miracles.

* * *

Pulparindos and mini Aldamas collect up in Freddy's cup holder. Even if Larry's working the kitchen, Freddy gets his bill with a little chunk of candy, which must mean Larry's told the other wait staff about him. Which must mean Freddy is special.

Freddy is fucking hopeless. Hopeless enough that he's jerked off desperately in the shower a couple times now before stopping by Forajidos to ensure he doesn't pop a bone if Larry so much as smiles at him. It feels like he's a little league pitcher and Larry's the coach, warms up like sunshine as soon as Larry shows any inkling of happiness seeing him around.

If there were a way that Freddy could approach Larry and ensure he won't get his ass beat for being a fag, Freddy would already be on it, but the thought of Larry's face clouding over with disgust makes him so sick down to his stomach.

So he settles for what he's got: casual conversation and jack off sessions alone in the shower.

* * *

Kid has been coming around a lot and Larry can't keep his fucking eyes off him. Larry wants to push that damn hair out of his face and kiss Freddy until he sags into his arms, kiss him like Freddy is the only lifeline Larry's got to keep him tethered to this earth.

Makes Larry feel like he's a fucking creep, watching this kid through the clouds of steaming dishes and thinking he's got any shot with him. Kid is probably half his age. Even if Freddy is an AC/DC, there's no way in hell he'd want to get with an old bastard like Larry. What are the odds he'd even give Larry a second glance? One in five fucking million.

Larry leaves it at friendly conversation, smiling when he sees Freddy at the bar ready to eat. It makes him feel good inside, knowing that Freddy comes in to eat his cooking, that Larry is the guy feeding him something with substance to it instead of McDonald's or some other fast food shit. He's told staff to give the kid a candy, just pick whichever one from the jar and include it in Freddy's bill. Maybe it's flirting. Maybe Freddy will pick up on it.

Maybe Larry's too damn old to be playing games with boys like this.

* * *

Larry's counting the bills in the register to be placed into the safe in the back wall of the kitchen, ready to go home for the night, take a shower, maybe watch a movie before dozing off, when there's noise loud enough in the back alley that he peeks his head out. And who the fuck else should it be other than Freddy, absolutely getting his ass kicked by some dude Larry's never seen before.

So without a second to decode the situation, Larry grabs his push broom from the corner by the door and storms out, starts beating the living piss out of the guy until the handle breaks. Even then, Larry growls out, "Gonna jam this into your sorry guts if you don't get lost, you fuckin' punk," holding the splintered end just under the man's throat, poised like a scorpion stinger. He'd hit the man in the mouth with the handle. Blood is pooling out of the corner of his lip as he trembles, looking up at Larry with wide, shocked eyes.

It'd be easy as striking a match: Larry brings the broom down hard as he can and it pierces right through this piece of shit's jugular. Blood explodes all over the pavement. Guy flails his arms, gurgles his last breath, and falls dead.

The guy beats feet, makes himself gone quick as he can, scrambling upright and bolting off into the dark.

Larry turns around to find Freddy, who's slumped down against the wall of the restaurant, lip split, white shirt torn, but looking otherwise put together. His eyes are almost as big as the other guy's.

"Get up. Oh, Jesus, kid, look at you." Larry grabs him by the arm and helps Freddy to his feet, starts to walk him to the back door. "The fuck was going on out here?"

Freddy inhales to speak, then winces as the breath ghosts over the neat little chunk missing from his bottom lip. "I'm. I'm a cop. I got put on neighborhood night watch and—"

"A cop?"

Larry feels cold and sick suddenly. Just his fucking luck, falling for a face fresh out of the training academy. Not an ideal match given his rap sheet, and the realization hits him: Freddy knows his full name and place of work. Kid ever got bored at work, he could find his record no problem, and Larry knows all too well that pigs don't fancy eating at restaurants run by guys who have been involved in the business like he has.

He's been out of the game a few years now, but that doesn't mean he's safe enough to go falling head over heels in love with a fucking rat like Freddy. Hang around long enough and Vic or Nice Guy Eddie will make it all too clear, whether by accident or on purpose, exactly what ties Larry Dimmick has around town.

Because even when you're retired, you're never really out.

"A cop, huh. What the fuck are you doing without a gun? Or even a billy club? Too young for that? Team give you a hand buzzer or somethin'?" Larry asks roughly, steering Freddy over to the big stainless steel sink to rinse up in.

Freddy shakes his head. "Left my gun in my car. Fuckin' figured this guy wouldn't be too much trouble. Just vandalism."

"First fuckin' mistake," Larry mutters. He grabs Freddy's wrist and holds it up under the soap dispenser, other hand pumping out foaming suds. "Gonna get yourself killed, kid. Jesus."

"Realized that a little too late." Freddy sounds both annoyed and embarrassed.

Larry shoves his hands into the stream of hot water and it's obvious Freddy could be doing this himself, washing up, nothing's broken, but he's allowing Larry to do it, so he doesn't stop. He scrubs the back of Freddy’s hands, up his wrists to his arms, where little bits of gravel and pebble stick into the flesh like broken glass. No blood, though, just surface level scrapes.

"Wise up, son, or you're gonna wind up fucked and headless. Lucky I was there to bail you out."

Freddy remains silent, his hands dripping into the sink as Larry yanks paper towels out to dry him with.

"I'm not fond of cops," he continues, voice low and a little stern. He turns Freddy's hands over so they're palm up and starts dabbing him down with the paper towels he's got bunched in his fist. "I'm sure you've already found out most people ain't. But I'm fuckin' stupid enough to make an exception."

Freddy slowly looks over to him, his bizarre hazel eyes almost glowing golden with how the yellow light of the kitchen is hitting them, and says, "What?"

Larry shakes his head. "Fuckin' insane. I must be losing it to…"

Freddy's face clouds up, confused, and he curls his damp fingers around the underside of Larry's forearm. "To what, Larry?"

Over the radio, K-Billy is playing Mungo Jerry's Lady Rose.

Larry drops his eyes down to Freddy's lip, just inches from him, and he says, almost defeated, "To think I got any fuckin' reason to be fallin' in love with a kid like you."

And instead of a look of anger or distaste, Freddy seems to burst with relief and Larry's so wound up, he's not sure who starts in, but they meet in a frantic, heated kiss that makes Larry's heart fit to well and stall. Freddy curls his fingers tighter around Larry's wrist, coiling like he's trying to pull him in closer, and every nerve ending in Larry's body is singing.

"Oh, Jesus, Freddy," Larry breathes out when they stop, leaning on each other, forehead to forehead.

"I don't know who's stupider," he kind of giggles. "You for thinkin' you couldn't have me or me for kissing you while my lip is fuckin' busted open."

Larry breaks into a smile and pulls away to take Freddy's chin between his fingers, inspect the wound he's working with. "Nice bite he took outta ya, that's for sure." He brings the wadded paper towels up and pats Freddy's bottom lip, getting him to wince, go "Ah!" at the contact.

In the background, K-Billy introduces Tommy James & The Shondells's Crimson and Clover. The spacy chords and trance-like echoing matches up perfectly to how Larry feels, as if he's falling happily sideways, as if he's going to jolt awake at any moment now.

"How you feelin'?" Larry asks softly.

"Like I got kicked into a wall."

Larry breathes a laugh out of his nose. "That's because you did. I mean how do your organs feel? Think anything might be broke?"

Freddy shakes his head. "Don't think so."

"Mm. You'd know if something was." Larry wants to kiss Freddy badly again, but rather, he says, "Your ride around?"

"Yeah, parked a couple blocks over."

Larry nods. "Let me lock up and I'll walk you to it, okay?"

Freddy smiles, despite the obvious ache it puts through him.

Larry lets Freddy sit at the bar while he finishes up around the place, locking the register and all that menial every night precautionary bullshit. His mind is rattled, stunned from the fact that not only was Freddy okay with kissing him, but the admission that followed it. "I don't know who's stupider. You for thinkin' you couldn't have me." The way Freddy had phrased that… Like he was just waiting for Larry to take him.

Larry locks up and leads Freddy out, putting a hand to the middle of his back as they walk. The night is cool and silent and neither of them disrupt it with conversation.

At Freddy's car, Larry bends down so he's level with the open window and asks, "Comin' by for lunch tomorrow?"

"Are you making this a date?"

"If you'd like it to be, you fuckin' punk."

Freddy smiles, almost shyly, and Larry could swear his heart does a backflip. "Sure, I'll come by for lunch. On one condition."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"You let me take you out to dinner."

Larry barks a laugh and grins, says, "It's a deal, kid."

* * *

Freddy takes Larry to his favorite bar because the food is good and he wants Larry to know he's not as much of a kid as he thinks, but the back of his mind tells him if he's got to prove his maturity he must not be all that mature to begin with.

"This your haunt?" Larry asks when they settle at a little corner table.

Freddy shrugs, wanting to seem cool. "Not much on drinking, but sometimes the guys wanna drink after work."

"The guys?"

"Yeah. Other cops."

Larry nods, doesn't say anything more.

"Look, man, I know it bothers you— that I'm a pig. I won't talk about it again, if you don't wanna hear it." Freddy's poor heart feels caged and desperate, like he'd do anything to win over Larry's approval.

Here he is with a guy he's hardly known for a month and he's already swearing to never talk about his profession again, so long as it means he gets to keep seeing Larry. A profession he worked hard to obtain, and he'd toss it all out if Larry gave the word.

"Don't worry about it, kid. Any prejudice I got, I'll keep it on the down low, alright?" Larry nudges Freddy under the table with his foot, a signal to let him know it's all cool.

The night goes smooth. They sit at their table and make easy conversation, Freddy avoiding talk of work, and trying not to come across as over eager. They order nachos and share a plate and Freddy's almost 100% sure Larry purposefully reaches into the little red plastic basket at the same time as him just to bump his fingers. He's giddy and excited and it's obvious because he gets to talking wildly with his hands, can't control himself.

Freddy's blabbering about The Lost Boys, Larry having asked him what type of movies he's into, when he stops and goes, "What?" because Larry's giving him a look.

Larry softens his smile and laughs, resting his cheek on his palm. "You're a cute fuckin' kid, that's what."

Freddy goes red and he's thankful it's dark in the bar. "I'm just—"

"Talk with your hands like you're directing traffic." Larry's smile grows. "Anyone ever tell you how cute that is?"

Freddy chews his bottom lip, thrown off his rhythm. He's not sure if that's a rhetorical or not. He opens his mouth dumbly.

Larry laughs. "Jeez, that's an answer, ain't it? Hardly have a clue, I can tell." He stretches his arm out so it lays over the back of Freddy's chair, and for good measure, he gives Freddy a warm squeeze on the shoulder.

Freddy's stomach butterflies, nerved that Larry's showing any sign of affection in public. Freddy's gone out with girls before, held their hands and all that shit, but with guys, it's nothing but secretive looks and tapping each other's shoes. It makes him feel bold and desired knowing Larry's got an arm around him, doesn't give a single fuck about who might see.

Freddy's lost his footing from being interrupted and complimented, so he sits in a comfortable silence, watching people as they mill about, dance and drink and order food. He enjoys the feeling of Larry's arm creeping in closer until it's curled probably around his shoulders.

Tilting his head closer so Larry can hear, Freddy says, voice low, "Pull me any closer and I'll be in your fuckin' lap."

Larry grins wolfishly. "Don't give me any ideas, kid."

Freddy snickers, flustered, mutters, "Fuck, man…"

Larry chuckles and brings his hand up to playfully palm the back of Freddy's head, ruffle his hair. He lets it slip down and rest so his thumb swipes the nape of Freddy's neck absently.

Freddy gets back to talking and Larry listens fondly, watches him with starry eyes like he can't believe his luck. It's making Freddy a little crazy himself, body warm and electric.

Firecrackers go off inside him when Larry suddenly brings a chip up to his lips and Freddy stumbles over his words, blinks. He shuts up and eats it, feels his face go dark red as he chews. If he were braver or they were alone, he'd probably tilt down and give Larry a teasing lick on the fingers. The thought makes Freddy's stomach tighten.

"You tellin' me to shut up?"

Larry grins. It's like he can't stop himself from smiling when Freddy's around. "More like you should get some meat on those bones."

Freddy darts his tongue out, swipes the corner of his mouth to gather the salt there. "Gonna make me fat, old man."

"More of you to love on then."

"I don't put out on the first date," he laughs, mostly joking.

"Thing like you, I could wait years."

Freddy's positive he'll never get used to talk like that, being treated like a trophy, a prize, but he's willing to stick around and find out if it'll grow on him.

* * *

Freddy drops Larry off at his apartment and Larry comes around to the driver's side door to give him a short, wanting kiss through the window. "Had a helluva time, buddy boy."

Freddy giggles. "All we did was talk. And I did most of it."

Larry grins. "Already told you I'm old enough that the boring crap is what I look forward to most." He stands up straight and reaches into his back pocket for his carton of cigarettes. "Not that you're boring. Jesus, kid, I'd pay money to listen to you talk."

Freddy blushes again, embarrassed. "You give me too much credit."

"You don't know how much you're worth, that's your problem."

Larry pats around for his lighter and when he can't seem to find it, Freddy reaches into his cup holder and offers out a flame. Larry smiles his appreciation and leans in, dips his cigarette into the little wavering tongue of fire.

Upright and exhaling smoke from his nose, Larry asks, "Gonna let me see you again?"

"Whenever you're free."

Larry reaches into the car and lovingly ruffles Freddy's hair. "I'll call ya, okay?"

Freddy nods, smiling like a boy, and watches as Larry goes up the steps, disappears into the brick building. His heart is all honey sick, soft and thrumming with desire, and as he pulls out of the lot, he turns on the radio. The Modern Lovers are on, Roadrunner, so he spins the knob up and bobs his head along to the beat, drumming the steering wheel.

Fuck, does he feel good.

* * *

Next date, Larry invites Freddy over to his place.

Freddy showers until his skin is pink and almost plasticky, seared hot from the water, and shaves away whatever whiskers are growing in on his chin and upper lip. Cologne and his best white undershirt. He fucks around with his hair for a while, mussing it up, even considering slicking it back the way Larry keeps his, but he leaves it in his usual style. Regular blue jeans. It takes him a minute to decide what to wear over his shirt: leather jacket or plaid?

He settles on plaid and just as he's shrugging it on, the phone rings.

"On my way, bouta walk out the door."

"Yeah, I'll be waiting on the corner."

Larry hangs up and Freddy looks himself over in the mirror. He keeps pushing at his hair, unsure. "It's fuckin' cool, man," he breathes out, pointing at his reflection. "Larry is way into you." He grabs the bottom hem of his plaid and kind of pulls it open so it looks like a cape, maybe bat wings. "You're not gonna fuck this up."

Freddy grabs his keys from the dish and gives his apartment one last glance before heading out the door, down the steps, and onto the sidewalk. He lights a cigarette to cool himself down and watches the cars as they pass. The weather's nice, sunny but not sweltering. Freddy's thankful; he doesn't want to sweat through his shirt.

Larry pulls up a few minutes later in a mid-60s black Lincoln with a cream top, and Freddy tries his best to conceal a look of excitement. Larry leans across the seat and opens the passenger door.

Freddy swings into the seat which is original black leather interior and he whistles. "Never told me you had such a bitchin' car, man."

Larry snorts, amused, and turns on his blinker to get back on the road. "Never asked. Put your seat belt on, I'm not getting ticketed 'cuz of you."

Freddy rolls his eyes, but smiles, clicks the belt into the receiver. He lets his mind wander a minute, wonders if Larry would ever screw him in the backseat, or if the car is something he doesn't wanna stain up with sex. He wouldn't blame him. Car this nice, who would wanna fuck it up just because they couldn't wait to get back to their apartment?

Larry breaks him out of his little fantasy by saying, "There's stuff in the console for you."

Freddy smiles with a curious interest and twists the little silver metal latch, opens the compartment that separates their seats. Inside is a can of Coke and a bag of gummy worms.

"Just for me?" he teases, cracking open the Coke. It foams and he brings the fizzy rim up to Larry's mouth, lets him slurp it up in a mimic of what they did at the bar.

"Just for you, kiddo. Christ, that stuff is too sweet. How do you drink that shit all the time?"

Freddy shrugs and cranks his window halfway open. "Anyone who says that— says shit is too sweet for them, they're old. Coke is classic"

"When you're my age you'll understand."

Freddy snickers and peels open the bag of gummy worms. He flops one under Larry's nose, asks, "Gummies too sweet for you as well?"

Larry pushes his neck forward and sinks his teeth into the red and green worm. Freddy lets go and it dangles out of his mouth.

"Guess that answers that."

"Make me feel like a fuckin' high schooler again." Larry grips the wheel with his left hand, sprawls his right arm out to play with Freddy's hair.

"Makin' a habit fast."

"Of what?"

Freddy sips his Coke. "Playing with my hair, man, can't keep your hands off it."

"Have my hands on you other places if it weren't against the law to do so in public."

Freddy goes red and shuts up, his face twisting into a smile he can't control.

Larry laughs and keeps at playing with Freddy's hair. "'Sides, not like I'm gonna mess it up, looks like you already did that yourself. "

"Hey! Whaddya saying here?"

"Keep all that hair flopped over those pretty eyes, can't hardly see 'em." And as if to demonstrate his point, Larry reaches around and pushes Freddy's bangs back, cups the side of his jaw. He rubs his thumb over the soft spot below Freddy's ear to make him shiver.

On the radio, K-Billy introduces The Buzzcocks, chooses Why Can't I Touch It? Freddy turns the volume up some.

"Saying I need a haircut?"

"Yeah, you look like— ah, what do the kids call it these days? A dweeb?"

Freddy laughs. "You're the one who's taking me back to your place. Must not be that much of a dweeb."

"Hey, I knew you were a nerd when I decided to fuck with you." Larry drops his hand down to Freddy's thigh and gives him a pat before putting both hands back on the wheel.

"What would you call someone back in your day?" Freddy's amused, smiles around the gummy worm he's got dangling between his lips.

"Schmuck. I dunno. A goober, maybe?" Larry shakes his head. "Seen someone like you, call you a dish."

"A dish?"

"A doll, a knockout." Larry grins and signals into the parking lot of his apartment complex. "A real stunner."

Freddy scoffs, smiles.

Once Larry's parked and has pulled the keys out of the ignition, Freddy takes him by his right wrist and kisses the back of his knuckles. He's bent down enough that he draws his eyes up to catch Larry's look, smiling from beneath his eyelashes, the hair that's falling into his face.

Larry breathes out a shaky, "Fuck."

* * *

"Starting to think you only want me around to show off your cooking skills," Freddy says, tapping out a cigarette.

"Consider it a fuckin' perk, kid."

Freddy smiles to himself and lights his smoke. He sets his elbows on the table he's sat at then rests his chin on his knuckles, gives the place a look around. It's not too shabby for a single man. Larry's got a Pioneer SX-1980 stereo set up, pristine, all wood and silver, no dials missing. A complete dining set, chairs that match and aren't scuffed or bought second hand. A clean couch positioned in front of a television. There are squares of discoloration on some of the walls, Freddy notices, and he wonders if they're from photos that were recently taken down.

The place smells like cigarettes, some sort of leather-and-wood real fucking masculine type cologne, and now, from the kitchen, hot rice.

"That's a killer stereo, man," Freddy comments.

Larry chuckles from the kitchen. "You big into music?"

"Eh. Guess so. I mean, I ain't a historian or anything."

"Can turn it on, if you'd like. Trust you know how to run it. Won't break it on me."

Freddy gets up and squats in front of the machine, tunes it until he lands on Don't Cry by Guns N' Roses, halfway through the song.

Larry comes in with two steaming plates of yellow rice with corn, a sliced roll topped with butter for each of them. "Whaddya drink, kiddo?"

Freddy returns to the table and stubs his cigarette out on the clear glass ashtray in the center of it. "What ya got?"

"Milk, water, orange juice. Beer?"

"Orange juice."

Larry goes back to the kitchen.

Freddy hasn't had a warm meal midday in an apartment in lord knows how long. Before Larry, he lived on the usual bachelor shit: sandwiches, takeout, and if it was the weekend, things like cereal and goldfish crackers and instant noodles. They have a vending machine at the station, often times, he eats out of that. Oreos and Pop Tarts.

Larry returns with a glass of orange juice, a mug of hot coffee for himself. He sits across from Freddy and smiles. "Eat up and don't be shy."

Freddy spoons some rice into his mouth. "You got a weird fetish for this type of thing, old man? Like watching dudes eat?"

Larry snorts. "No, just eases my mind knowing you're not eating McDonald's or some shit like that."

"Oh, so it's a possessiveness thing."

"Call it whatever you'd like."

"I call this a good fucking plate of rice."

Larry smiles, pleased and proud.

They eat and the radio plays while they chat about small things. Freddy talks about a record shop he really digs and Larry listens like it's the most interesting shit he's ever had the privilege to know. Larry talks a bit about business, how he got into cooking from his grandmother.

When they're both finished, Freddy offers to do the dishes and Larry affectionately tells him to fuck off and hang out on the couch. Freddy laughs, turns off the radio, then does as told. He flops on the couch and settles on an episode of The Simpsons he's seen about a million times.

Larry joins him a moment later and as soon as he's seated, Freddy's wiggling in close, leaning his head to Larry's shoulder.

Larry wraps his arms around Freddy and practically pulls him into his lap, says, "Shoulda known you still watch cartoons."

"You fuckin' kidding? Simpsons are cultural icons."

Larry "mhm"s him and kisses at Freddy's neck, makes him squirm deliciously.

Freddy's anxious and off-centered. He's never fooled around with another guy before during the day. Every single encounter has been during the night, usually with the help of some alcohol pumped into him to ease his inhibitions.

Freddy stutters. He didn't really have a point to begin with, was just arguing to argue.

"Distracted?"

Freddy giggles. "Hard not to be when you're kissing down my neck like that."

"I could stop."

"Oh, I didn't say that."

Larry breathes warm amusement against Freddy's throat, starts to peel off his plaid, slow and gentle. Makes Freddy feel like a gift being unwrapped, or maybe an orange removed from its rind. It's bizarre and intoxicating, how he can almost sense the desire radiating out of Larry, into him, like when you press your hand to a television and it statics under your palm.

"Tell me what you want, Freddy," Larry murmurs. He bites lovingly at Freddy's collarbone, tightens his grip around Freddy's middle.

Freddy swallows, his skin tingling at the graze of teeth. "You," he answers simply.

"Want me, you gotta use your words, sweetheart."

Freddy melts at the nickname and he untangles from Larry's embrace to turn around and straddle him. Larry's hands go up to his face and Freddy leans down to kiss him, opens his mouth and feels Larry's tongue brush past his teeth.

Freddy inches away and Larry brushes his nose back and forth against Freddy's cheek, a tender little gesture. "Want you… to fuck me," he whispers, feeling shy.

He's not used to looking his partner in the eye, being touched softly. It's embarrassing, being asked what he'd like.

Larry smiles, happy with that answer, and says, voice hushed, "How 'bout I show you to the bedroom then."

Freddy nods and they share another kiss, a quick, messy peck on the mouth. Larry finds the remote and turns the television off. Freddy scoots back and stands up and he hopes it's not too obvious he's getting hard in his jeans just from kissing. He's eager, he's wanting, but for it to be acknowledged so early on would be mortifying.

Larry leads the way, holding Freddy's hand. The room has a queen sized bed in the center, a sliding door closet off to the left of it, and a sturdy oak dresser. On top of the bureau is a small radio and some cassette tapes, a single framed photo of two people, who, from Freddy's quick glance and guessing, must be a young Larry and his father or maybe an uncle.

Larry backs him up onto the bed and Freddy sits on the edge, draws his hands up Larry's stomach to his chest and starts working on the buttons of his Hawaiian print shirt. Larry helps speed up the process and soon the shirt is shucked off, discarded on the floor. Freddy touches him curiously, almost marveling at what's in front of him and the prospect of being allowed to do as he pleases. He traces the lines of Larry's pecs with his index finger.

"You're gorgeous, kid," Larry mumbles all of a sudden.

Freddy shrinks back, sheepish.

"Hey now, none of that." Larry draws a palm over Freddy's cheek, then dips his hand down and tugs loosely at Freddy's white undershirt.

Freddy understands the gesture and lifts the shirt off, drops it to the floor where Larry's lies.

"Shit, you're beautiful," Larry breathes.

The breathless honesty to his voice makes something ache sweetly in Freddy's chest, but the attention is too much, so he hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Larry's pants and tugs him forward with a coy smile.

"I hear ya," Larry laughs quietly and he ducks down to kiss Freddy as he crawls over the bed. Freddy scoots back to make room for him. Larry puts a hand to the middle of Freddy's bare chest and pushes him until he's sprawled out beneath him.

"Never told me what you want, buddy boy," Larry murmurs with a smile. He dips down and kisses at Freddy's jawline.

Freddy tilts his head with a small gasp, allowing Larry access to his throat, and when Larry kisses down and over his Adam's apple, Freddy's breathing quickens. "Did too," he answers, and he sounds pouty.

"Weren't very specific." Larry continues with his kissing, moving on now to Freddy's chest, which is so pale and slender in comparison to Larry who is broad and tan. Freddy is near hairless save for a few fine, peachy curls on his sternum accompanied by constellation clusters of freckles.

"How many different ways am I meant to tell you I want to be fucked up the ass?" Freddy deadpans.

Larry snickers. He kisses a straight line over Freddy's happy trail, stopping when he gets to Freddy's fly. "Wanna take you like this," Larry says, and he means with Freddy laid out on his back.

Freddy swallows, says a soft, "Okay," because he wants that, too.

Some irrational part of Freddy's brain thinks dumbly that missionary is a position saved only for heterosexual encounters. Gay sex is, in his experience, more like a fight, a sparring match to see who can get off before recoiling with disgust, than a romantic endeavor. His head goes swimmy, thinking about how sincere Larry is, how obvious his care for Freddy is.

Larry draws his right hand up Freddy's knee to his thigh over the denim of his jeans and Freddy shudders, sighs at the touch. Larry rolls his palm over Freddy's erection, rubs him a few times, until Freddy can't hold it in anymore and he lets out a shivery little sound. Larry sits up on his knees and unbuckles Freddy's belt, pulls his zipper down.

Freddy, red in the face, embarrassed at how gentle and deliberate Larry is being, throws an arm over his eyes.

Larry starts laughing, guffawing, more like it, and confused, Freddy drops his arm away and sits up on his elbows, eyebrows pinched.

"What?"

"Nice fuckin' undies, kid."

Freddy looks to where his jeans are pulled down to his thighs. He's wearing boxers printed with little pink cats, a single red cat, and a single white mouse in an officer's uniform. He'd completely forgotten he'd decided to wear his Mappy boxers. He's got so many pairs with silly patterns like that (Galaga, Speed Racer, panels from the Silver Surfer comics) he didn't even realize Larry would see how dorky they are.

Freddy stammers then sputters out, "Mappy is a classic, too! Don't tell me you've never fuckin' played _Mappy_ , man!"

Larry smiles and shakes his head, pushes Freddy back down into the sheets. "I don't even know what the fuck a Mappy _is_."

Freddy opens his mouth to insult Larry's knowledge of all things modern and popular, but Larry mouths over Freddy's erection and all the air goes out of Freddy's lungs. The hot humidity of Larry's breath is excruciating and Freddy cants his hips up, legs trembling.

"Could eat you whole," Larry says, like he's talking to himself.

Freddy groans, strains his neck against the mattress.

Larry edges Freddy's boxers off, pulls the jeans away with them so Freddy's completely nude, and it feels terribly vulnerable. Larry curls his fingers around him, feather light, like he's afraid he'll hurt the kid, and Freddy downright whimpers.

"Too slow," Freddy croaks out, impatient.

"Tryna take care of ya." Larry spits into his palm, wraps his fingers around Freddy again, and strokes him softly.

Freddy tenses the muscles in his calves. He groans.

Larry leans down and lavs his tongue over the head of Freddy's cock, jerks his wrist in time with the slow licks, really loves on him. He keeps this up a few minutes until Freddy's writhing and whining and Larry displays mercy by pulling away and going to undo his own jeans.

Freddy has a weird urge to cover himself, act modest, but he sits up instead and watches Larry with big, wanting eyes. Larry snakes off his belt, unzips his jeans, and scoots off the bed to step out of them. He's wearing white briefs, tented in the front from his obvious arousal. His erection creates a long, hard line against the straining fabric and Freddy swallows, darts his eyes away like he's being impolite.

In his underwear, Larry crosses the room and selects a tape, feeds it into the mouth of the radio. Johnny Cash's Closest Thing To Heaven plays quietly and that dull ache returns to Freddy's chest, the overwhelming wave inside him of feeling so deeply desired, there's not a word in any language to describe it. His heart feels like jelly.

Larry returns to the bed, gets up on his knees, and he grabs Freddy by the underarms. He hauls Freddy up, easily sets the kid so his head is in the pillows. Larry leans down and kisses Freddy sweetly on the mouth, makes Freddy hum. Freddy reaches tentatively forward and hooks his index and middle finger into the waistband of Larry's underwear and when Larry kisses into him with more heat, Freddy takes that as permission to continue. He works the front of the briefs down and when he gets his hand around Larry's dick, he groans directly into Larry's mouth.

"Want you," Freddy mutters between kisses. He glides his hand over Larry's dick, relishes the groan it forces out of him.

"Mm…" Larry slides his left hand down Freddy's stomach, pausing to toy with the crop of kinky, sandy blonde pubic hair nestled between Freddy's legs. His touch travels further southward until he's down past Freddy's slender thighs, and Freddy knows what's being proposed and he opens his legs wider.

Freddy swallows and places a kiss to Larry's chin, his cheek, wherever he can reach without craning up too far. "Do you have…?"

Larry nods and sits back, reaches into the single nightstand by the bed. He produces a clear plastic tub of Vaseline, a single condom, and once again, Freddy glances away.

"Shy little thing, huh?" Larry chuckles affectionately, dipping two fingers into the grease, rubbing them together so it thins and warms. "Gonna take care of ya, baby boy. Don't you worry."

Freddy gives Larry another good stroke then drops his hand away.

Larry, with his clean hand, draws Freddy's thigh up so he's presented and Freddy's cheeks burn. A slick finger drags over him and Freddy exhales, blindly finds Larry's mouth to slide his tongue into, take some attention off himself. Larry eases his trigger finger into Freddy and Freddy hisses, pants against Larry's teeth.

"Gotta relax, sweetheart," Larry soothes.

Freddy makes a whimpery sound, bites at Larry's bottom lip as Larry's finger slides in up to the third knuckle. Larry works him gently, adds a second finger, and Freddy's body accepts it with little resistance.

Freddy groans, grumbles, "Need more, Larry…"

Larry presses one more kiss to Freddy's mouth, which is nearly kissed sore, and withdraws his fingers, a whine pulling out with them, and sits back to tear open the condom. He rolls it on, digs a dollop more of Vas out with his fingers, and spreads it evenly on his dick.

Larry leans over Freddy and gives him a kiss on the forehead, so achingly tender, then lines himself up, says, "Gonna treat you right."

Freddy groans. "Fuckin' get on with it..."

Larry chuckles at the ragged need in Freddy's voice and presses his hips forward, cock gliding smooth and slow into Freddy's ass. They both let out a breath and Larry lays a hand to Freddy's throat, rubs his thumb over his jawline in a pacifying motion. Freddy gulps, lets his body sag compliantly as Larry sheathes himself.

"Fuck…"

Larry groans and kisses Freddy, feverish, and murmurs, "So fuckin' good, so good for me, kid." He rocks his hips gently, Freddy puffing as he slacks his jaw, eyes screwing shut.

"God, Larry," he moans, sounding, already, absolutely wrecked, taken apart. "Need more," he repeats, gulping.

Larry thrusts again and when Freddy moans sweetly at the push, Larry starts up a steady pace. He sits up on his knees, grabbing Freddy by his slender hips, thumbs hooked around the curved bones that jut out on either side, and Freddy cants his hips up so his back is arched off the mattress. Freddy's hair flops down in the pillows like a messy halo, his face scrunched with shocked pleasure. His chest heaves and Larry pulls him by the hips with every thrust.

"Fuckin' look at you," Larry chokes out. "Jesus, Freddy…"

Freddy cries, twists his head to the side. He's embarrassed at the way his cock is bobbing against his stomach with each movement, the way it's weeping a shiny puddle of precum just below his navel. He reaches up, runs his hand over Larry's stomach then draws his fingers over himself, jerks himself off.

Freddy keeps hiccupping Larry's name, mewling, and it drowns out Johnny Cash's deep crooning of I Can't Help It. He's self conscious, worried Larry's neighbors are gonna complain, but fuck if they do, his mind is a buzzing mess of white hot bliss.

Larry dips forward and hooks his arms under Freddy's shoulders and heaves him upright, hands dropping to his waist. Freddy yelps and snaps his eyes open, slings an arm around Larry's neck to stay steady as Larry drives up into him.

"God," Larry breathes.

"So good, Larry. Fuck— Larry," Freddy babbles. He presses their foreheads together, then finds Larry's mouth, kisses him aggressively.

Larry sweeps Freddy's hand away to take over jacking him off and Freddy drops his head back, moaning a pitch higher. Larry's stomach twists and heats, body burning up. He kisses urgently over Freddy's chest, bites at Freddy's right nipple just to hear him cry brokenly at the feeling of teeth.

"Larry, I'm—!" Freddy sounds so frantic, bordering hysterical, and he chokes on a sob, hand sweeping down to dig his nails bluntly into Larry's back.

"Want you to. Wanna see you, Freddy…"

Freddy moans and his legs tighten, toes curling. His cock bobs and leaps in Larry's grip, lower stomach contracting, and he whines something incoherent and desperate as he comes, spilling hot over Larry's hand.

"Shit," Larry hisses.

Freddy contracts around him, fluttering, coiled like a spring, and it drags Larry over the edge almost immediately, coming into the condom. Another cry spills out of Freddy at the feeling, and he bows forward to bring both his hands up to Larry's face, kisses him fiercely before going limp in his arms.

Larry pants, peppers little kisses into Freddy's sweaty, messy hair. His arms are weak, tremory with his orgasm, but he lifts Freddy up and off him, lays him gently down in the sheets. Freddy cracks an eye open and reaches out, takes hold of Larry's wrist and brings his hand to his mouth. Pink tongue flashes out between his lips, lapping up his own cum, and Larry exhales sharply, watches with a burning fixation.

"Gonna kill me…"

Freddy smiles, weak and sleepy. "Mhm…"

Larry pulls the condom off and ties it, drops it in the wastebasket beside the nightstand. He says, "Lemme get you cleaned up, baby."

"S'tired," Freddy mumbles.

"C'mon…" Larry scoops him up into his arms and with a grunt, lifts him off the bed, carries him to the small bathroom across the hall.

He places Freddy in the tub, too sleepy to even try standing, and he runs the water warm. Larry steps in behind Freddy and Freddy cuddles up to him, lays his head to Larry's bare chest.

Larry cleans between Freddy's legs, soaps the film of grease off him, and Freddy hums contently.

"Can you stay the night?" Larry asks, hushed, like if he speaks too loudly, Freddy might be shocked into some realization and disappear.

"Gotta be at the station by 10 tomorrow."

"So stay, I'll drive ya."

"Okay, Larry."

It's only about noon. They have the whole rest of the evening together. Johnny Cash plays from the bedroom a while longer until the tape ends and clicks off, and then it's just the sound of them both breathing, the indistinct chatter of traffic and people talking on the streets outside the window.

Larry pulls the plug and gets up, opens a towel for Freddy to step into. He ruffles the kid dry and Freddy leans lovingly into the rough contact, swaying happily on his feet, and follows Larry back to the bedroom where they sprawl out together on the bed, cuddled side by side, naked and warm.

Freddy leans over the edge of the bed and digs around in Larry's discarded pants, finds his smoked and silver lighter. He sparks a cigarette, takes a drag, then places the stick between Larry's lips.

Larry breathes smoke out his nose while Freddy shoots wobbly rings to the ceiling. Freddy lays his hand to Larry's chest. He wants to touch him as much as he can, keep touching just because he can, because Larry is sturdy and strong and there to accept his curious fingers.

By 1 pm, there are two new stubbed out cigarettes in the ashtray and the sun is cutting dully through the slats of the plastic blinds of the single window parallel to the bed. It casts straight lines of gold over Freddy's loose, sleeping body. Larry presses a kiss to the side of his head, mumbles, "God, I love you, you fuckin' punk," and settles down to doze off, too.

* * *

A couple hours later, they stir awake.

"Hungry?" Larry asks, running his fingers through Freddy's hair over and over.

"Fuckin' starving, man," Freddy yawns.

"Get dressed and I'll take ya somewhere."

Freddy stretches then goes slack. "Want burgers."

Larry chuckles. "I'll get you a burger then, you goober."

"Don't wanna get up."

Larry gives him a nudge. "Sooner we go out, sooner we get back and I can put some more loving on you."

"Okay, okay, I'm getting up."

* * *

They end up at a 24 hour diner and Freddy orders a burger with fries and a root beer float. Larry has hot coffee and a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, but he mostly watches Freddy eat, amused at how he inserts fry after fry into his mouth, swallows, then gulps down some of his float.

"What?" Freddy asks when he realizes there are eyes on him.

Larry smiles. "I'm a lucky fuckin' guy, is all."

Freddy snorts and giggles, pulls at the edge of Larry's striped button down, which fucking drowns the kid, but it's goddamn cute. "I'd say I'm luckier, but hey, I ain't arguing."

Ballroom Blitz by Sweet is playing quietly from the speakers hung in each corner of the diner and Freddy drums his index fingers on the edge of the table along to it.

"Better not be."

Freddy grins, all teeth. "Never in my wildest dreams."

* * *

Larry's awake first in the morning. Freddy is a tangle of skinny, abstract limbs and disheveled hair beside him in the bed, sleeping with his mouth slightly open, and Larry sits up for a smoke, watches the way Freddy's chest rises and falls with each breath. He leans over and kisses the kid on the side of his nose before carefully getting up and going into the kitchen.

He puts the radio on quiet. K-Billy, which is what he plays at Forajidos, but also seems to have become the universal DJ of his life since just about every time music is on, it's of K-Billy's choosing. How Long by Ace plays while he scrambles eggs, butters toast.

Freddy stumbles out of the bedroom, coaxed by the smell of hot food clouding the apartment, and when Larry sees him standing in the doorway, dressed only in a pair of pale blue sleep shorts that belong to Larry, something stirs happily in Larry's chest.

"Gonna spoil me rotten," Freddy laughs, coming over and sitting at the table.

Larry brings over a steaming plate of eggs and toast, places it in front of Freddy, plants a kiss in his hair. "Told you, it's a perk."

"Ain't you gonna eat?"

"Making lunch," Larry answers.

"Lunch?" 

"Need your ears checked?"

Freddy scoffs and shovels egg into his mouth.

Larry heats a skillet to start with some quesadillas. "I'll swing by your apartment before dropping you off," he says. "Figure you need to get dressed."

"I think freshly fucked out is a good look for an officer."

Larry barks a laugh. "Between you and me it is."

"Take a shower here, go by your apartment, get dressed, drop you off."

"Pack me with a fuckin' delicious quesadilla free of charge."

Larry grins. "Can pay me back when you're off work."

Freddy giggles, takes a big bite of toast. "Now _that's_ a plan."

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading
> 
> find me on tmblr @ficfucker
> 
> considered another part/sister fic where some of the gang comes around and causes some trouble, some angst but not sure on it yet???


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